


HSWC 2014: br5 fills

by Mags



Series: HSWC 2014 [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Age Difference, General Creepiness, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:18:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mags/pseuds/Mags
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ficlets from HSWC 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	HSWC 2014: br5 fills

**Author's Note:**

> If I recall correctly I actually stayed up late to write this on my phone. You're welcome.
> 
> Caliborn/Kurloz
> 
> "Act natural. Act like all of nature. Act like the entire cycle of life and death and change and rebirth."  
> \- Welcome to Night Vale

Sunlight lances down, tinted every hue imaginable by the stained glass windows above. The hall is grand but empty, though later it will fill with all types of people--rich and poor, landed and landless, important and unimportant--all bumping elbows and exchanging pleasantries like they talked to each other every day, not just at coronations.

The throne, by all accounts a glorified and uncomfortable stone chair, remains unused at the moment, though you give it a final, needless dusting for good measure. 

Then in comes its occupant. Despite having just clawed his way past nineteen, he is nonetheless the sole heir to the throne after his sister died in a tragic accident. (There were rumors, of course, but you were careful, and nothing linked him to it.) 

He doesn't acknowledge your neat bow as he sweeps past. His narrow shoulders and thin build make his father's formal wear bunch up around the waist and sag over his shoulders. Even his crown (a weighted metal circlet to prepare him for wearing the real deal) threatens to fall off his shaved head with every jerky move he makes. 

And to think that Caliborn will become king. Lord of the realm, defender of the crown, graced by the gods. If you didn't know him as well as you do, you'd never have guessed he could do it.

He sits in the throne, fidgets, shifts position, and tugs at his collar. The crown nearly slips off and he hastily adjusts it, but when he fidgets again it does fall to the floor with a rattle that makes him jump in the silence of the hall. 

Caliborn swears under his breath and snaps his fingers. "Makara," he says, sharp and tense.

That's unusual. Normally he just snaps or calls you servant, or one memorable time, "hey you over there, with the face." 

"My lord?" 

"Do away. With the fake crown. And when you have finished that. Fix this insufferable cape." His speech has his usual clipped edge to it, but it lacks some of its usual disdain. 

"Yes, my lord." 

It doesn't take you long to put away the crown and fix his cape, though you dawdle deliberately because you can see the hint of nervousness in his eyes as you smooth down the fur trim and straighten his collar. He looks at you--really looks at you--and his eyes reflect the red of a dying martyr on the stained glass windows above.

There is less than an hour until the hall will fill with people, and you find yourself wanting the time to pass slower. Less than two hours until you will stand in front of your new king. 

Caliborn is full of nervous energy, unable to sit still. It reminds you of when he was very young, stealing his sister’s tiara to play king, threatening to have everyone beheaded if they didn't give him extra chocolate or pick him up to see out the window. 

It's how he looks anywhere but you that finally pushes you over the line into giving advice. "My lord, this is your finest hour. You are taking the power of the gods and the power of men into your hands today. Act natural. Act like all of nature. Act like the entire cycle of life and death and change and rebirth, because that is what you are, and what you will be." 

There's something open and unguarded in his open mouthed expression, something innocent. It disappears as his mouth returns to its usual smirk. 

"Kurloz," he says softly. You didn't even know he knew your first name; you first met him when he was a stubborn toddler and you were barely older than he is now, but he's never called you Kurloz. 

The word sends a spark of something dark and hungry into your stomach. From the deepening of his smirk, you know it showed on your face. 

"Come closer," he commands. He moves and his face is tinted in a kaleidoscope of greens.

You lean in, bracing one hand on the arm of the throne. 

"How much time do we have?" 

"No one else is supposed to arrive for at least half an hour, my lord," you say, licking your lips.

"Good. Because I have something new. For you to do." 

You'll do anything he asks, and he knows it. 

He is your king, after all.


End file.
